WOTMT editor Sir Stanley Headfire says: It's a dogs life

There's nothing I like more than the rub a dub dub of the Saturday morning sound of the washing machine going round and a round full of the Selmanettes collection of replica kits. Blue and white stripes mingle with yellow flashes and the odd glimpse of a Chupa Chups advert that has my taste buds slavering with Pavlovian juices.

The concept of having to have a new replica shirt (and matching shorts, socks, shin pads and hankie) every three weeks means very little to me with my limited wardrobe of only a small leather collar. But, after all, one dog's attire is another person's fetish.

For a teenage Wednesdayite, only the new kit with the correct badges and sponsors will do. Now it's not like my Dad to disagree with anything WISA, but he's taken issue with that nice Mr Register's campaign to not change the club shirt at regular intervals. "Can't they see that they have only my well being at heart", he says. "If they didn't fleece me for over a ton each August I'd only spend it on beer, so in a way they are doing me a favour".

Money is mixed up with football these days in a way that Winalot mixes with Pedigree Chum. Take one away and you're left with something that is bland and boring as you experience it going down. And so of the mighty boys in blue and white. Try as they might we all know that without more money to bring in new puppies and the odd experienced pedigree, life is not going to be a full Sunday walk in Wharncliffe Woods and will only ever be a windy wet walkette on Wadsley Common.

But what to do? Even if every season-ticket holder were to buy as many replica kits as the Selmanettes, they would only contribute enough money to pay Carlton's wages for a season. And even if they put them all on at once to get that Hirsty testimonials look, it wouldn't achieve much more than make the North Stand look full again.

So what is to be done? Until Wednesday get some real cash, they are going to continue to look as sorry as a Labrador with a dry Rivita. They could sell the training ground, but that's not going to bring in enough to clear the debt, never mind buy new players. They could ground share with the old enemy (that would be like having my rival for attention - the lovely golden Rosie from down the road - share my dog basket). No, there is only one real solution. I'm afraid it's that dreaded M word.

Yes, marriage. The way I see it, Mr Yorath or Mr Hodgey has got to take a rich bride. This might sound a bit far fetched at first hearing, but it used to work in the middle ages. A once great country, cash strapped by the ravages of war (or in this case the long campaign in the nether regions of the Premiership), would betroth the first born to a rich princes from a far off land.

There must be some multi millionaire whose plaything is a Champions League football club who is wanting his daughter wed? We all know that the good people of Barcelona have great taste and a passion for football. What would they give to have their team and shirts mixed up as only a Hotpoint Hotwash Heavyload can do. And imagine the pride of both sets of fans as Barcelona Wednesday ran out on to the hollowed Hillsborough turf (for they would clearly choose S6 over Catalonia as their home) with blue, red, white and blue shirts with a Chupa Chups transfer on the front.

That Mr Smalls might have a few consortia up his sub-editorials and Mr Allen might be a very shrewd businessman, but it took a Labrador to come up with the only workable solution. As the frenzied Lady of Finchly once said: There Is No Alternative.